


'til i know i'm alive, alive

by groundopenwide



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Past Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 03:04:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11682702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groundopenwide/pseuds/groundopenwide
Summary: Peter’s always had a habit of sticking his hands where they don’t belong.





	'til i know i'm alive, alive

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not 100% sure what this is. i just really love peter and i've been thinking about him a lot lately- about how he's experienced trauma, too, but how it's a different trauma than that of an actual soldier. i sort of play with that idea here. mostly, though, this was just an excuse for me to explore a dynamic that somehow included peter, alex, AND tommy, because they're my kids and i love them.
> 
> title stolen from "sun comes up" by rudimental ft. james arthur.
> 
> [my tumblr](http://groundopenwide.tumblr.com)
> 
> ETA 12/8/2017: after FINALLY rewatching the film, i've come to realize that some of the events mentioned here aren't quite in line with canon (specifically what happens w/ george's body). that being said, i feel like editing them out would mess with this fic too much, so i'm leaving everything as is. please forgive the inaccuracies!

Peter’s lost nearly everything today. 

There’s a hollowness in his chest, like someone stuck in a scalpel and carved out his insides. His ears won’t stop ringing. Every few minutes, all of the air will leave his lungs, and he’ll be left gasping, thinking _this is it, everything’s been taken from me and now they’re going to take me, too._ But then he opens his eyes and looks around, and he knows that this isn’t the worst of it—that he’s still got it better than every single one of the wet, shivering bodies currently spilling off the _Moonstone’s_ deck and onto the docks.

He stands with his father at the stern and accepts their handshakes, but it feels all wrong. It was that RAF pilot that helped them dodge the fire of the Luftwaffe, the demands of the naval officers that sent them out on the Channel in the first place. All Peter’s done today is deadbolt a door and sign George’s death sentence in the process.

He’s no hero.

The last two men emerge from below deck, and it’s them—the one with the green eyes and a voice coated in oil and fire, _he’s dead, mate,_ and his friend, freckled and pinch-faced and eyes somewhere far, far away, probably back on that dreaded beach in a haze of artillery and smoke. They’ve got George’s body cradled between them, Green Eyes at his head and Freckles at his feet. Peter’s mouth tastes of blood. He watches, silent, as they lay George on the starboard bench and prop his bandaged head up on an extra life vest, their movements careful, almost ritualistic, like they’ve done this before. Of course they have.

Neither of them says a word. Freckles curls his fingers in the sleeve of the grime-covered jacket Green Eyes is wearing and tugs, directs him away from George and toward the stern. They stop in front of Peter and his father, but don’t go for any handshakes. 

Peter is stupidly, inexplicably grateful.

“What was he like?” Green Eyes asks, quiet.

“Brave,” says Peter’s father.

Green Eyes nods. Beside him, Freckles has his eyes fixed on his muddy boots. Peter wonders what he’s thinking, if he’s picturing some other dead boy he once knew. A friend, maybe.

Then Green Eyes is looking at him. At Peter. His gaze is vacant, haunted, in a way that rattles Peter to his bones. It’s like staring at a soulless carcass.

“What’s your name?” Green Eyes asks.

“Peter.” His mouth is very dry. “Peter Dawson.”

“You’re a brave man as well, Peter Dawson,” Green Eyes says. “Thank you for getting us out.”

_I didn’t,_ he wants to say. _I didn’t do anything, not one bloody thing, and now George is gone and my brother is gone and there are hundreds of oil-slicked bodies floating out in the channel when they should have been on our boat._

But he can’t say that. Doesn’t want to burden these men—these _boys,_ really, they can’t be much older than Peter himself—with any more than they already carry. So he grits his teeth, rubs his dirty hands on his sweater.

“And you?” he asks them. “What should I call you?”

“Alex,” Green Eyes taps his own chest. “Tommy.”

He touches Freckles—Tommy—on the shoulder, and Tommy flinches. He reaches up and snags Alex’s fingers, twists them enough that it must be painful. Alex doesn’t make a sound.

“Thank you— for bringing George up,” Peter says, because he doesn’t know what else to do. “That was kind of you.”

“It was necessary,” Alex says.

Necessary. Like they’d simply fixed the pipes under the sink. Peter wonders how much they’ve seen, how long it’s been since staring a corpse in the face first became _necessary._

“You boys had best be heading into town, now,” Peter’s father says. “They’ve got food and blankets. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding a bed for the night.”

He doesn’t offer up his own home, because this is it. The Dawson family has done its part, a bigger part than most—but it still doesn’t feel like enough, not for Peter. Nothing feels like it will ever be enough, at this rate. He wants to give these boys everything, do for them what he’ll never be able to do for George or his brother, and that’s twisted, isn’t it? Pity, misplaced and misused just because of a suffocating guilt he can’t shake.

Peter watches their backs as they go. They’ll be on a train tomorrow, then home for a week, maybe two, wherever home might be, before shipping out again. If Peter could lend them his own time, just hand over the never-ending months until he turns eighteen, he would. 

He would hand them over in a heartbeat.

“Help me get George?”

Peter turns back to his father, nods. He tries his best to shut off his brain, because that’s what all good soldiers do.

 

*

 

Night falls, eventually, but Peter can’t sleep. Whenever he closes his eyes, he sees the shivering soldier, the blood in George’s hair, the capsized ship. He hears the bullets raining down and the flames licking across the water. There’s still oil stuck under his nails; he’d tried to wash up earlier, but it had been impossible to get it all. His red jumper is a lump on his bedroom floor, soggy and stained and ruined.

He climbs out of bed and pulls on a clean one over his vest, along with a pair of trousers. The light of the full moon coats the entire town in a translucent white. Peter allows it to guide his way as he winds through the quiet streets, aimless, wandering. It’s late and all the windows are dark, even at the pub on the end of Main Street. He comes to a stop where the road forks out into nothing but trees and darkness and crosses his arms over his chest, feels the ocean breeze in his hair.

Back before his brother enlisted, they’d do this sometimes, take a late night stroll through town and talk about everything and nothing. Peter’s brother would tell him about how this town felt too small, sometimes, how he ached for somewhere wide and full of promise—the sea, the sky, even London. In the end, that desire had been his undoing.

Peter never understood it. He never understood how his brother could already have everything and still want more, more, _more._

Now, though—it makes sense. The need to do something bigger, _be_ something bigger. With the whole world vying for its place in the history books, it’s easy for one to want his own place there, as well. Will they teach the children about what happened at Dunkirk, fifty years down the line? Will they remember Peter and his father and all the little English ships that sailed straight into a war? Will they remember George—kind, sweet, George, grainy photo pasted in the newspaper, a local hero?

Peter makes the walk back home slowly. He takes the side streets, ambles past the schoolhouse and cuts through the little park he used to take George to when they were younger. He weaves around a sandbox, cuts across the damp grass of the football pitch. Then he realizes he’s no longer alone.

There are two boys curled up on a stone bench at the edge of the pitch. The moonlight smears out the sharp edge of Alex’s jaw, turns Tommy’s freckles into smudges on his skin, but their uniforms, the mere outlines of their bodies, are unmistakable. Peter looks at their craned necks and twisted limbs and knows, just like that, that they hadn’t even tried to find a room. That they would rather be stiff-limbed in the morning from a stone bench than be trapped inside and unable to escape.

Peter crouches in front of them. He doesn’t touch. When he speaks, his voice is too loud in the otherwise deserted park. “Hey.”

Tommy wakes first. He doesn’t slip back into consciousness so much as jolt into it, his head snapping up and eyes flaring open. He stares at Peter like a wild animal that’s been cornered, and it takes him a few seconds to deflate, to realize that there’s no threat.

When Peter glances at Alex, he finds that he’s already being watched. 

“Peter Dawson,” Alex drawls.

“Lads,” Peter replies. “Couldn’t find a place to kip for the night?”

Alex shrugs. “Nice night for a camp out, innit?”

Tommy shifts beside him, extricating his legs from the human knot the two of them have formed. Peter’s never felt like more of an intruder.

“My floor’s alright, too,” he says, careful. 

_Please let me do something for you,_ he wants to add. _Please._

“What would Mr. Dawson have to say about that?” Alex asks.

_Nothing,_ Peter thinks. _Nothing, because the house was already too quiet without my brother and now it’s even quieter without George, and I just need you to fill the space for a little while, give me something else to do, something else to think about, give_ ** _yourselves_** _something else to think about, please._

“I’ve got extra pillows and blankets. We can leave the window open.” 

It doesn’t mean _safety,_ necessarily, but it’s all Peter has to offer. 

“Why?” Tommy asks. His voice is low, like gravel; it’s the first time Peter’s heard him speak.

Peter has to think, this time, before he answers.

“It’s what George would’ve done,” he says.

Tommy’s nod is small, almost imperceptible. He turns to Alex, and their eyes partake in an unspoken conversation, one that Peter hasn’t the faintest chance of understanding. Their bond is one forged amidst blood and death and fire—tangled, messy, untouchable.

(Peter’s always had a habit of sticking his hands where they don’t belong.)

“Alright,” says Alex, finally. “These blankets are shit, anyway.” 

 

*

 

Hours pass. Peter lies on top of the covers and listens for something, anything, even the tiniest sound from the ground below, where Tommy and Alex are curled together on his bedroom floor like question marks. It’s like they aren’t even breathing. Peter wants to press his fingers to the warm skin of their necks, seek out a pulse, just to be sure.

“Stop thinking so loud.”

Peter blinks. The whisper comes from Alex, who rolls over so that Peter can catch a glimpse of his eyes in the darkness. Behind him, Tommy unconsciously adjusts for the shift in position, his face tucked away, invisible, behind Alex’s shoulder blades.

“Sorry,” Peter whispers back.

Alex sits up, the wool blanket Peter’s lent him slipping down his chest and pooling at his hips. “Does it bother you?”

“What?”

“Me and Tom,” Alex says. He glances to where Tommy’s head rests beside his hip.

“I— no, it’s—” Peter’s tongue feels heavy in his mouth. He sits up as well, hands fisting in the sheets at his sides. “It isn’t any of my business.”

The look Alex gives him is obscured by darkness, but Peter can still feel the intensity of it, the weight of those sharp eyes pinning him in place. He hears the rustle of blankets, the creak of the floorboards, and realizes Alex has climbed to his feet. He settles on the edge of the bed with his face tilted toward Peter; a sliver of moonlight highlights his profile in a way that’s almost otherworldly.

“It’s sick, what we do.” Alex’s throat works, his swallow audible in the silence. “But it’s— hard to give a fuck, after everything. You know?”

Peter can’t breathe, can’t utter a word. He sees Alex move before it happens: the elegant curve of his back as he leans forward, the feather-light brush of his fingers up Peter’s jaw, over his cheekbone. His hands are rough, calloused. They smell like oil.

“Brave little Peter Dawson.” The words are hardly a breath—hushed, shimmering into existenceand then out again. “You’re like us, aren’t you?”

“Alex,” Peter whispers.

Alex slides his hand to the back of Peter’s skull, fists it into his hair and pulls him forward. He works Peter’s mouth open, slow, deliberate, with his lips, his tongue, his teeth. Peter grapples at his shoulders just for something to hold onto; it’s like his whole body is coming apart, ripped at the seams. He makes a small, desperate sound that Alex licks right out of his mouth.

“Shhh,” Alex soothes. He slides one hand under Peter’s vest and strokes the lines of his ribs, the wiry muscles of his stomach. “Y’have to stay quiet.”

Peter’s chest heaves with the force of his next exhale. He runs his hands from Alex’s shoulders to his chest, catches the cool metal of the dog tags that hang from his neck. “Tommy— ”

“Shhh,” Alex says again. His fingers fumble at Peter’s trousers, mouth a brand against his neck. He wraps his hand around Peter, and Peter bites his own lip so hard he tastes blood. He can’t hear anything past the rushing in his ears, the puff of Alex’s breath at his throat. Alex’s palm is hot, unrelenting, and he strokes until Peter is shaking—until the whole world grinds to a halt, the seconds ticking by but going nowhere.

After a few seconds, minutes, an hour, Alex removes his hand and wipes it on the bedsheets. His other hand is still in Peter’s hair, smoothing the sweat-matted strands back from his forehead while Peter catches his breath.

“You stopped thinking. Good,” Alex murmurs. “Now you know why we do it.”

Peter swallows. He can’t think of anything to say, so he doesn’t say anything at all. He watches Alex slide off the bed and fold himself back up on the floor, his chest to Tommy’s back, this time, their legs slotting together like puzzle pieces. 

That’s when Peter realizes that Tommy’s eyes are open. He stares at Peter, gaze unreadable, until Peter lowers himself onto his pillow and turns away.

 

* 

 

When he wakes up, a train horn is blaring. The blankets on his floor are empty.


End file.
